“Bathroom. Come back here, please.”
My feet move one in front of the other as my brain tries to stop them.
I meet Brooks in the guest bathroom. He’s removed his shirt—which doesn’t helpat all—and has his right hand under thetap. He pumps some soap into his palm, but then looks at me over his shoulder.There’s no way for him to lather it.
I force a swallow down my tight throat, place the needle and thread, along with a pair of scissors from my sewing kit, on the edge of the tub. Then I step to the sink.
My heart slams against my ribs, forcing blood to cascade over my eardrums, as I look into his eyes. It’s that or let my gaze drop to his body again, and I don’t think I’m strong enough to risk that. He’s so muscled, so strong—his ridges molded to perfection by the Creator himself—that my desperation to be touched by a man might boil over right here in the bathroom with a needle in my hand.
“Need help?” I ask, pushing thoughts of everything but the task in front of me out of my mind.
“If you would.”
My hands are shaky as I wet them and then take his hand into mine. As soon as we touch, my knees threaten to fall out from under me in a spectacular scene worthy of a movie. My lashes flutter closed for the briefest moment as his thick fingers slip through mine.
The sound of the running water hopefully masks my heavy breathing. His hands are almost twice the size of mine, and his skin is rough and calloused. Instantly, I wonder what they would feel like touching me between my legs or caressing my breasts.
I shiver despite the warm water and refuse to look at him because I already feel his gaze on me. And thanks to previous encounters, I suspect he can read me like a book.
“There,” I say, turning off the tap. I grab a towel from the linen closet, dry my hands, and hand it to him. “We’re clean.”
He takes a lighter from his pocket and then dries his hands. “You ready to do this?”
“No.”
He laughs. “I’ll walk you through it. It’s not as hard as you think.”
“You’ve done this before?” I ask with wide eyes.
“A time or two.” He nods toward the peroxide and lays his arm over the sink again. “First, we’re going to try to clean it out with that. Just pour it over my arm.”
“Won’t it hurt?”
“Probably won’t feel great, but what choice do I have?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure emergency rooms have options.”
He rolls his eyes. “Pour it, Doc.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I open the cap and then clench my teeth. “Ready?”
“Yup.”
I cringe, turning my head toward him, keeping my eyes open to make sure I’m hitting the wound. As soon as the liquid touches the cut, bubbles fizz the length of the slice, and I gag. Brooks watches the reaction on his skin, with little response at all.
“Does that hurt?” I ask, breathing in the scent of his cologne mixed with his sweat. It shouldn’t smell this good—especially considering the circumstances.
“I can think of things that feel better.”
My gaze snaps to his as that same fizzy reaction happens inside my body. His dark eyes arehoodedas he searches mine. He’s too close and far too exposed to ignore the way he’s looking at me. My lips part as I drag in a breath.
“A bit more,” he says softly, still holding my gaze.
“What?” The peroxide!“Oh. Right.” My cheeks flush as I pour more of the fluid onto him.
“Okay, grab me a white towel and a wash rag.”
I step away quickly, setting the bottle on the side of the tub beside my thread, and grab the items he requested. He plucks the rag out of my hand and wets the corner with peroxide. Witha tenderness that I didn’t know he had, he cleans around the cut and wipes the blood off his arm.
